


Not A Lot Is Different When Your Soul Is Outside Of You

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [16]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Also not-quite-relationships but almost sorta are, Daemon Separation, Daemon Touching, Drabbles, F/F, F/M, Implied Relationships, M/M, Not in any particular order, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Same-Sex Daemons, daemon AU, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 04:47:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13628901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: A collection of random daemon drabbles, nothing too serious.(Most of the "relationships" are before anything happens, and in some cases are platonic)





	1. It's raining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters daemons will be specified in the notes at the end of each chapter.
> 
> Also I haven't read The Golden Compass in a long time so I don't quite know how true daemons act or what the society is really like, I'm sort of going off my own thoughts at this point.

His hands are shaking and he carefully reaches up and adjusts his glasses, pushing them up his long nose, trying and failing at not letting his complete and utter nervousness show as he fiddles and dawdles and distracts himself.

A hand reached out, soft fingers curling on his own raised hand, and she slowly pulls his shaking hand down and wraps their hands together, a smile on her lips and looking as stunning as ever as he tries to not seem as hopeless as he feels.

“It's perfectly fine William. Metheus won't peck you, I swear.”

He's still unsure, looks all the world like he would collapse at any second, he's never done this before, it was something he's had hammered into his head since he was a child.

It was taboo, something that wasn't done, except, except between the closest of people, the closest of friends or partners or, dare he think it, lovers-

And William didn't even want to think on what sort of position they were in, the relationship between them, they've known each other for a long while now, and the moment they met his career had skyrocketed, and he still had some things to work out, some bits of his show to clean up and change, but she was not one of those things, Charlie was almost the star of the show-

William visibly gulped and turned his gaze to the daemon in his lap, the rain outside a steady background noise as the storm crept slowly over the brick city that they had settled in for the time being.

He was terrified of touching him. He didn't want to hurt him, didn't want to accidentally injure him, didn't want to offend him or insult him, and it felt as if he was doing the worst thing in the world, daring to touch such a beautiful creature. 

The peacock daemon himself, blindingly white feathered, long tail feathers trailing down from Williams lap and pink red eyes watching him unblinkingly, seemed unfazed, was watching him closely and it was as if the daemon was judging him, waiting. Ever since they met, Charlie seeking work of any kind, her telling him that the magic may be a fun venture, the travel a bonus to see the world, that money wouldn't be too much of a problem just as long as she could save a little every week, the white daemon had watched him, had kept a close eye on him, barely speaking a word to him at all.

It was unnerving, made him a little hesitant, but Charlie's cheerful chatter and overall friendly attitude made him trust her, and so far he hasn't regretted it. Far from it, really, more of a fondness that would light up in his chest and make every show he did so much more easier, more hopeful with her by his side.

And, somehow, in someway, she seemed to have grown fond of him as well.

The daemon turned his head, eyeing William, and he could feel his own daemons nervousness, settled at his feet and ears up, feeling as tense as himself. Maxwell wasn't usually the one to get so nervous, but this was a little stressful even for the normally stiff rabbit. Their interactions together, the rabbit and the peacock, were slow and tense, both watching each other even as, at times, the bird daemon would take to preening the rabbit and the rabbit would flop over against the peacocks side, relaxed and yet…

_“I give you permission, William, and so does Charlie. Do stop being so anxious.”_

That was Metheus this time, lilting and almost sing song voice so sudden to almost make William jump in surprise. Charlie laughed lightly, hand leaving his and touching his shoulder, and she reached out and spread her hand over the peacock daemons back, feathers smoothed over as she stroked him. 

“If you don't want to, that's okay, I'll understand. Just know I'm perfectly fine with it, okay?” 

William nodded, the nervousness still there, a little jittery with the way Metheus was looking at him, bright pink eyes staring him down, but after a moment he took a deep breath of air, straightened his shoulders as he carefully laid a hand down on the bird daemons back, Charlies fingers lightly brushing his. She laughed again, quieter this time, and he worried for a moment that he had messed up, but then Metheus ducked his head, stilling as Williams fingers touched his white, pristine feathers. The daemon was a heavy weight in his lap, settled fully and as comfortably as he could on Williams rather thin legs, and he felt Charlie lean up against him. When he glanced at her, still not doing much besides keeping his hand still, soft feathers beneath his palm, she gave him a small smile, looking ever so slightly distracted, and let her hand rest on top of his, moving his hand along with hers to slowly pet the peacock daemons back. 

His own daemon brushed against his leg, shifting his weight, and he heavily sighed, feeling that nervous fluster seep away. He shouldn't have been so nervous, not with Charlie giving him such explicit permission, and Metheus was obviously not at all disturbed by this, completely relaxed in his lap, eyes slowly closing. 

When Charlie lifted her hand away from his, he kept stroking the bird daemons back, almost fascinated by the white feathers of the daemon. Albinism was incredibly rare to see on a daemon, and Metheus was absolutely magnificent. 

Perhaps that was another reason why he had hired her, the stunning sight of the white daemon flapping his wings on stage in comparison to the rather large black rabbit that stood at Williams side, but that was not the only reason of course. One shouldn't judge someone on their daemon, and Charlie was so very different from the silent, colder, almost regal nature of Metheus. Even if her daemon had been something like a cat or dog, so commonly seen in the cities of this country, he would have hired her.

And he really shouldn't be so judgy when it came to the shapes of people's daemons. He had a rabbit, a black one at that, and Maxwell may act as snobby and holier than thou as he wanted to but that didn't change the fact that a magician with a rabbit daemon was not something unseen. In fact, it was perhaps the only thing anyone ever saw when it came to magic and magicians.

After a moment Charlie touched his shoulder, getting his attention as Metheus opened his eyes, turning his head to watch the both of them.

“Is it alright if I…?”

William didn't know what she asking for a minute and his confusion must have shown. Charlie gestured down, not quite pointing to the rabbit daemon that pushed himself up against Williams leg, ears flattened and stiff, and he didn't even waste a second in nodding, hand still on the peacock daemons back as that nervousness returned tenfold.

He couldn't just tell her no when she was letting him touch Metheus, now could he?

Maxwell seemed a little more hesitant, pressing against Williams leg and eyeing Charlie warily for a moment, before taking a small step forward and letting her wrap her hands around him, lifting him to her own lap. 

William turned his focus on the bird daemons feathers, a shiver crawling up his spine at the feeling, almost too similar to hands around his throat, before Charlie once more settled against him, a hand playing down the rabbit daemons spine. William knew Maxwell wasn't all too comfortable just yet, but he squished the discomfort down, willing himself to relax at the somewhat odd and almost terrifying feeling of someone holding and touching his other half.

Charlie must be feeling the same thing, the thought rising in his mind as Metheus caught his gaze, holding him in a piercing pink stare. He looked away first, looking at the white feathers and their patterns under his fingers. The prickling feeling was starting to ease away, not quite as tight around his throat, not as threatening, and he swallowed thickly, Maxwell slowly starting to untense and closing his own eyes under the touching.

It shouldn't feel as awkward as it did, and maybe it wasn't, maybe he was just overthinking things. That was probably it, yet he felt the need to break this silence, mind scrambling for something to say to her, anything at all, just to get this rather odd unnerving energy to fade away, his daemon acknowledge his feelings and breath a deep sigh, flicking his rabbit ears under Charlies touch.

“I have, I have some changes for the show I've been thinking about.”

Charlie shifted, and William tried to not stiffen when he felt her rest her head against his shoulder, watching the rabbit daemon in her lap as she brushed her fingers through his soft fur. He was nervous again, didn't want to make a mess of things, he shouldn't have said anything in the first place.

“What do you have in mind, Wil?”

She didn't sound disturbed, not at all irritated with him for bringing up work while they were doing this of all things, and he let out his held breath, trying to relax, feeling Maxwell start to forcefully untense himself and stretch out his paws, nose and whiskers twitching with still tightly shut eyes.

Metheus seemed to have fallen asleep, feathers rising and falling with his deeper breaths, head ducked and sharp eyes closed, and William didn't want to stop his stroking just in case he woke the daemon up now, mindful of how Charlies fingers brushed against his daemons ears and back, the soft, warm feeling ticking the back of his mind but ignored in favor of paying attention to where his own hands were. Metheus had beautiful feathers, and William would never forgive himself if he messed up and plucked a feather from the bird daemon, not to mention what Charlie would feel if he wasn't careful.

“Well. Well, for one, I was thinking of a name change, and investing in some new props, and…”

He stopped, letting his hand rest on the peacock daemons slumbering back before turning his head to look at the woman leaning against him, head against his shoulder and eyes closed, breathing slowly. Maxwell raised his head, the rabbit daemons nose twitching as he looked up into Charlie's sleeping face, and then turned his large black eyes to his partner, her hand still resting on his back.

_“You bored her.”_

William blinked at his daemon and then sighed, his glasses sliding down his nose uncomfortably as the peacock daemon shifted in his lap, still very much asleep. The white bundle of feathers was so soft, but he pulled his hand away and fixed his glasses, tilting his head and leaning fully against the couch they were upon. It was the polite thing to do, to not touch someone's daemon when they were asleep.

_“Try to be more interesting next time. It's a wonder your audience doesn't just fall asleep every time you enter the stage, with how much of a conversationalist you are.”_

William ignored Maxwells mumbles and grumbles, the rabbit daemon settling, ears flattened and nose twitching as his partner closed his eyes and listened to the patter of the rain outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> William's daemon is a male black Flemish Giant rabbit named Maxwell (questions to this will be answered in a later chapters notes).
> 
> Charlie's daemon is a male true albino peacock named Metheus (it seemed fitting).


	2. My daemon wasn't a spider

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of daemon splicing from the original His Dark Materials are in this chapter.

“Oh, Wendy, we haven't even asked what their name was!”

Webber clicked and churned their mandibles, spider limbs shifting close to their face in almost embarrassment, and their new friend turned her head, barely looking at them as she adjusted the backpack that lay on her back. The spider child played with the straps of their own backpack, hopping up close to her, yellowed prairie grass bending and crackling under their spider paws. Buzzing quietly in the air right by her head, a shimmering feathery bundle of purples and greens and blues, the daemon turned a dark eye at them.

Wendy glanced up to her daemon, slowly raising a hand and waiting as the hummingbird daemon delicately landed on her outstretched hand, minding the almost extraordinarily long beak. She brought the daemon close to her chest, ducking her head as her bangs fell in an almost darkened curtain, other hand stroking the daemons small back softly, and Webber felt something in their chest pang at the image, the little hole in them aching for a moment before they brushed their spider limbs across their face, mandibles dutifully cleaning the spined tips in an instinctive manner. They shook themself, fur puffing up as they ignored the emptiness, and that seemed to bring their friend back to herself.

“His name,” she said quietly, lifting her hand out and watching as the hummingbird daemon took flight, darting about around her head and then above her, swinging his long bill about as he changed course so quickly, “is Waldo.”

Webbers face contorted into something akin to a smile, mandibles and spider limbs twitching and rising as their blank white eyes shone, and they raised their head and waved to the fluttering daemon, a soft whistle of spider sound escaping them in their excitement.

“ ‘ello Waldo! It's nice to meet you! Our name is Webber!”

The daemon glanced down at them, swinging his sword like bill around, and then he drifted close, eye level to Webbers arachnid face and many speckled eyes. Webber brightened at the colors that reflected off of the daemons feathers in the sun, raising a hand almost awestruck to the bird before he darted off, back to circle around Wendys head. For a moment the emptiness returned, even stronger, but Webber smiled even wider and trotted to their friends side, looking not at all saddened.

Wendy watched them, wide eyes closed off and unreadable, before she tilted her head and said, in a soft, curious voice, “Where is your daemon, Webber? I haven't seen them since we've met.”

Webber stuttered in their attempt to look fine, spider limbs drooping, but they shook their head and straightened their shoulders, puffing out their chest as the hummingbird daemon above the both of them darted around, ever searching and watching.

“We don't have one! We used to, but we don't anymore!”

The silence after that was a little disheartening. Webber was holding their breath as they stared out into the distance, the sun slowly beginning it's descent into dusk. When they looked back to Wendy, she was even harder to read, everything covered up even as her daemon fluttered this way and that, looking almost frantically about, searching for something that Webber knew not of.

“That's impossible.”

Wendys voice was lower, almost emotionless, and Webber couldn't help the little shiver that ran up their spine. They've have only known each other for a few days, not that long at all, and while Webber trusted her fully as a true friend, sometimes her voice reminded them of someone else.

She continued, face now breaking the facade and looking a little confused. The hummingbird daemon hovered over her head, tilting his bill and looking for a place to land, before plopping down right into her hair, keeping his bill well away from being tangled up. The sight would have been funny, would have made Webber laugh, but the look on her face and the striking pang in their chest made them not feel like laughing right now. Maybe not for awhile, with how longingly they looked up at the daemon that settled comfortably on his partners head.

“One cannot not have a daemon, Webber. If someone's daemon dies, then they die. If someone loses their daemon and can't get back to them, then they die. If you didn't have a daemon, then you'd be dead.”

Webber puffed up, mandibles twitching as they clicked and chirped to themself, but it wasn't in any sort of anger or offense that made them put their claws on their hips.

“Well, I'm special Wendy.” They closed their eyes, spider limbs spreading as they tilted their head, throwing out their chest and posing. “I don't need no daemon, cause I'm really, really special!”

Even as they said that the empty hole in them seemed to grow, mandibles clicking roughly at the memory, of the odd nurses and stiff speaking doctors and the white walls and cold tiled floors, of the machines. Of something, no, someone, tugging in them and being pulled away, falling away, fading away, forever.

“Is it your spider half?”

Webber snapped their many eyed gaze back to Wendy, daemon still perched contently in her hair.

“Was your daemon a spider, perhaps? Did you two get stuck together, somehow?”

Wendys eyes were narrowed in thought, almost looking sure of herself, before Webber shook their head, spider face drawn a little tense.

“No, our daemon wasn't Settled yet. They liked to be bugs, big ol’ beetles and praying mantis and-”

Webber suddenly cut themself off, spider limbs curling in and throat closing, and maybe Wendy saw the change, because Webber felt her hand on their shoulder as they trembled, their own claws drawn in to hug themself tightly. Their many eyes felt a little clouded, damp, and the spider child slowly slid down into the yellowed grass, curling up tightly and bowing their head.

After a moment they felt Wendy drop down, slowly sinking into a sitting position and keeping one of her hands on their furry shoulder, the presence of her daemon almost too much for poor Webber and their consuming emptiness. They sobbed into their fur covered arms, suddenly overwhelmed with heavy guilt and shame, a longing for something long gone, taken away forever, and they didn't know if it was better that Wendy was here or not.

It was nice, having a friend, out here of all places, when out there the only friends they had were the stiff smiling nurses and tight lipped doctors who told them that they did good today, very good, would you like a sticker?

But this friend was whole, something really bright and real, warm and complete.

Maybe it was better for Webber to be alone. They had feared her to have attacked them in the beginning, feared that she was like the pigmen, that she could feel how empty they were, but she didn't and now they felt almost too much when they got too close to her daemon.

“I knew it.”

She whispered, almost to herself, and Webber raised their head, looking at her hardened face and rubbing at their tearful eyes, soaking their dark fur and trying to stop the hitching sobs from escaping them.

She spoke before they could, reaching up and cupping her daemon in the palm of her hands, pulling him to her lap, eyes gazing down at the hummingbird cradled in her hands, voice soft and dark, still almost a whisper.

“We can feel it, Webber. You should be dead.”

Webber blinked their many eyes, tears still trailing through their fur and mandibles twitching, spider limbs drawn close to their face. They didn't know how to reply, the scraped out hole in them still there, never to go away, ever, and something churned in their gut at the thought.

You should be dead.

But Wendy raised her head, looked them in their tear stained eyes, face as unreadable as ever but almost softened, curling her fingers protectively around the daemon in her lap.

“But you're not, Webber. Is that why they told you that you were special?”

Dumbfounded, a little confused and still feeling the way their throat was closed up and still having memories linger in the back of their mind, Webber nodded. They didn't know if Wendy knew everything, if she knew of the white building and the steel biting tearing machines or the nurses and doctors or the dorm rooms full of other kids, kids who talked a lot and whispered a lot and some even Webber knew, from when they were taken away from the street on their way back home after playing, so long ago it seemed.

“Well.” Wendy looked almost unsure of herself, a flash of her emotions, and then her mask slid back on and she raised her daemon to her mouth and whispered quietly to him, the hummingbird twitching his head, long dark beak and shiny colorful feathers a small, odd bundle in the girls hands. Then she looked at Webber.

And offered her daemon to them, hands raised stiffly, fingers uncurled as Waldo looked up at them.

Webber was terribly confused.

After a moment the bird stood up, fluffing his feathers and shaking himself, before he spread his wings and darted to Webbers tear soaked, black furred arms. The second he landed, tiny claws clinging to their tangled fur, Webber understood what Wendy was doing.

“You don't have to-”

“Waldo and I are fine Webber. You miss your daemon terribly, and we both think it is quite alright if you want to hold Waldo if you need some comfort.”

Webbers mandibles twitched, the hole in their chest gaping as the daemon shook himself, raising a tiny clawed foot to scratch at his chest, long bill tilted to prevent him from loosing his balance. They didn't touch him, not at all, but the little birds presence on them made them almost feel…

Almost feel like themself again.

Still, Webbers spider limbs twitched, many watery eyes almost glued onto the daemons relaxed preening.

“Wendy.”

“Hm?”

They reluctantly turned their gaze away, to look at their still new friend, her face drawn and looking deep in thought.

“It's not allowed.”

They stated it bluntly, the emptiness in them still there, still present, but almost softened with Waldo shuffling his tiny talons on their arm. They may not remember everything from out there, may not remember their fathers face or grandfathers laugh, or even their other, true halfs name, now lost into golden dust, but they remembered the taboo.

Everyone knew about the taboo. No one was supposed to touch another's daemon, not even by accident, and it was really, really bad if you did.

Even if you just tripped or bumped into them or grazed them with the tips of your hands, you'd get into really big trouble. Webber remembered being told that.

They also remembered the nurses and the doctors who didn't seem to know the taboo, who would pick up their daemon without even asking anyone and would drag them into a testing room or a machine room, cold hands wrapped stiffly around their other half.

Wendy folded her arms, face turning firm, and for a moment she reminded Webber of some of the older kids, their shifting daemons puffing up commandingly when talking to the younger kids.

“And who says it's not allowed?”

Webber hesitated, mandibles twitching.

“A-adults do?”

“And are there any adults out here with us, Webber?”

Webber must have looked a little downtrodden, shaking their head and feeling mocked, before the daemon on their arm shifted his talons and shuffled, puffing up his feathers and making himself comfortable. They looked down at the small daemon, white eyes still a little damp, and Waldo looked them in the eye.

_“What Wendy is trying to say is that it does not matter if it is allowed or not. Your daemon is gone and will not come back. We cannot fix that, but we are your friends, and Wendy wants you to feel better.”_

The daemon tilted his head, feathers glowing colorfully in the sun's rays, and Webber felt like tearing up again.

_“I am not your daemon. But, I can at least be here to help you feel less alone.”_

Webber hiccuped, spider limbs trembling as they swiped at their face with their free claws, and smiled a big spider smile, looking at both the hummingbird daemon and their bestest friend, their only friend in the whole wide world, both this one and the one they had long left behind. 

They were glad they were not alone anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Webber's daemon never Settled, though for some reason I've always thought of theirs being a praying mantis of some sort.
> 
> Wendy's daemon is a male Sword-Billed Hummingbird named Waldo. (Where's Waldo? ha ha ha)


	3. Flames so bright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my favorite ships actually. (I'm a huge multishipper though, so don't expect concrete ships)

The stink of raw meat, still warm, still slicked with blood, filled the campsite. Hunks of flesh were stretched and hung on racks, furs and skins drying on others, and Willow wrinkled her nose at the smell.

She liked meat as much as the next person, but this was a little much.

Her daemon stalked about, lifting her nose and twitching her whiskers at the cuts strewn about, eyes narrowed and watchful. Willow huffed, pouting for a moment as she stomped over to the chests and flung one's lid open, swinging around her pack and emptying its contents into the wooden storage. Charcoal was already filling it, her load piling even more supplies on, and Willow slapped her charcoal stained hands together as she looked down at her cache. Won't be needing wood when she had all this nearby.

Then she slammed the lid shut, a harsh sound as Willow pushed her weight on top and jammed it closed, forcing it down. Maybe a little too much on her part, but that just meant that their fire won't be dying out anytime soon.

Winter was almost upon them, the nights growing darker and her fires growing ever higher and hotter, and Willow chewed on her lower lip as she turned and went about starting the fire, dusk darkening the sky with reds and oranges. 

That Beargar may carry them into spring, Willow eyeing the hunks of meat hanging from the many drying racks, the thick coat spread about, not quite ready to cut up and sew together just yet. She wasn't all that good with that sort of think, her hands “too fast for her thoughts” as the old woman would say, but Wigfrid was fairly good at it. 

Well, “fairly good” was too nice. The woman's work was clumsy and baggy, hung off of Willows thinner form and clinging almost too tightly to Wigfrids sturdier frame. Not that Willow minded; it didn't matter to her if it fit or not, as long as it kept her warm.

Her daemon crept over to her side, brushing against her arm as she struck the flint together over left over wood and charcoal from this morning. The carcal daemon flicked her tail, long tufted ears alert and pupils slits as she looked away from the fire into the forest, Willow herself enthralled by the struggling flame that had caught, a spot of warmth dancing in the fire pit. It would eat up what it had been given, grow bigger and bigger, warmer and warmer, before it finished eating up the dry world it was stuck with and choked on nothing but its own smoke. But that would be later, in the dark of night, with no one to watch the flames or tend to its hunger. For now, it had Willow.

The sun set as she went about feeding the fire, daemon pressing her fur against Willow, still watching and waiting. Willow did not dawdle on feeling worried; Wigfrid would either end up back here before dark or tomorrow morning. She reached over and stroked her daemon, fingers pressing firmly against the caracals boney spine as she flicked her tail about, finally sitting in the dirt next to Willow.

She had eaten earlier, striping cooked bird corpses and chewing as she followed the forest fire, chancing upon round charred moles or slumped burned pigmen corpses as she went. All that meat was still out there, and she'd be going out for it later tomorrow, but she had eaten enough to not feel even a little peckish tonight. And she was pretty sure Wigfrid was not going to be hungry when she got back; the viking ate as she hunted, sometimes even just shoving her raw catch down her throat without even a wince! Willow had almost lost her breakfast the first time she saw Wigfrid do that to a rabbit, flaying the skin and breaking the ribs apart to get at the creatures organs, and she hadn't even tried to be polite when she had turned down the offer to join in. The old woman may have tried to jam it into her head to act as polite and civilized as possible when around all these people, but with the vikings very clear lack of manners Willow had disregarded everything that mean old crone had told her. 

That witch could shove it where the sun don't shine, Willow wasn't going to act like some prim and proper lady in waiting when around the rest of these hooligans. The last time they had seen each other, Willow had stuck her tongue out and made a silly face at her, not even bothering in explaining herself when an instant later that mad scientist guy started seeing monsters in the dark.

That had been a rather exciting monthly meeting. Willow hoped the next one was going to be just as eventful.

Something snorted out in the darkness, a grunt that caught both Willows and her daemons attention at the same time, both snapping their heads in the direction the sound had come from. Her daemon watched, stiff legged as her gaze stared out into the forest and the swiftly darkening sky, and then there was a rustling and a figure trotted out of the bushes, passing trees and pushing up her helmet, brushing the curled strings of hair from her sweaty face.

“Hö friend! Lööks like we göt höme just in time!”

A dark form burst out of the bushes behind her, snorting and flinging his head about as he dashed ahead of her, tail held high. Willow stood up just as her daemon raced forward to meet Wigfrids demon, the boar snorting into the caracals fur and letting her brush up against him as the two woman raised their hands in greeting.

Wigfrid strode forward, wrapped Willow in a one armed hug, her other arm preoccupied with a laden leather bag stuffed almost too full, another pack hanging from her shoulder just as bulging. Willow had only been camping with her for a few weeks and yet the viking was the most friendly person she's met so far, pulling away and smiling widely, crooked buck teeth notched with lines she's done herself. The affectionate way Wigfrid would greet her was still a little shocking, especially with how she's been raised, but it was rather nice to have someone around who was so boisterous and happy to see her for once.

“Ya just beat sun down, what took you?”

Wigfrid held up the bag, shaking it for effect before grabbing Willows arm and tugging her to the fire pit, the darkness of night completely unaffecting her.

Nearer to the light Wigfrid looked even more roughed up than usual, dirt and sweat with splatterings of blood on her armored clothing, but she didn't seem to be swayed at all by her messy appearance and laid the pack down with almost surprising care, kneeling to open it up and letting go of Willows wrist as she focused. The two daemons drew closer, the caracal daemon wandering between the boars legs and dragging her whiskers through his bristly fur, Wigfrids daemon calmly trotting over and sliding down with a heaved sigh, letting the caracal clamper up his belly and sniff at his flicking ears.

“Wyöt and I chanced upön a cleft öf möthers, every nest ripe with a yöung warriör tö be.”

Willow crouched down in the dirt, skirt mussing up as the fire light washed over Wigfrids stuffed pack. When the viking flipped open its top the light danced over white and blue speckled eggs, large and bunched together in a makeshift nest of black feathers and twigs. 

“So...you stole a bunch of eggs?”

Willow sweeped a gaze over the night darkened camp, at all the meat that the giant had provided, but when she looked back at Wigfrid the woman was carefully scooping up one of the eggs, holding it in one hand.

The egg shined in the fire light, the blue not quite her favorite color in any way, but some of the speckles were smeared together, almost like white flame in some spots. The viking turned it in her hands, the grin still on her sweat stained face.

“We have taken warriörs, Willöw! Small önes, but öne day to gröw ströng and brave!”

“They'll eat a lot,” Willow huffed, finally sliding down to sitting in the dirt, facing the fire, “and anyway we can take care of ourselves just fine. Don't need any attack birds or anything.” She crossed her arms, ignoring how her own daemon was curled up on top of Wigfrids, the low pur not quite audible over the flames but thrumming quietly in her chest.

Wigfrid set the egg back into the makeshift nest with its siblings, scooting the bag closer to the fire, and then stood up. Hearing her move about, walking over to the ice box and opening it with a squeak, Willow glanced over to see her stuff even more meat into the fridge.

She couldn't quite keep her voice level low or less pitched; that was a lot of meat!

“Where'd you get all that!? Don't we have enough food!?”

Wigfrid stuffed the meat and bone hunks into the already full storage, closing it carefully and firmly, the empty bag hanging from her shoulder, and she turned back to Willow and clapped her hands together, looking quite satisfied.

“The child warriörs möthers put up a valiant fight, yet I wön öur skirmish. But, it is always better tö have möre than enöugh! We shall never starve with what we have been cöllecting!”

With that the viking trudged over to the chests, flinging them open and digging through their contents.

Willow had to admit, they'd not be hungry for awhile with all this. It almost felt like too much even, and some part of her worried on it all wasting away.

Then again, Wigfrid ate a lot of meat. The woman was a powerhouse, yes, almost a giant herself, and Willow had seen her take down things alone that usually took at least three people. She has also seen Wigfrid slaughter, butcher, clean, and then eat a whole beefalo in one day.

Maybe all this meat actually wasn't enough.

Wigfrid slid down next to her, startling her out of her thoughts and the fires dancing flames as the viking set down what she had taken from the chests. 

Leather, linen, silk-

Oh right, she probably wanted to clean all that gunk off of her. Willow scooted away to give the woman room, Wigfrid pulling her helmet off and freeing her curly orange hair, shaking her head as her braids dangled down her broad back. 

“We shall hunt för the hulking tusk beasty tömörrow. Winter will be upön us söön enöugh.” Wigfrid said as she started to scrub her face with the linen cloth, caked mud and blood wiped off. “A few vests öf fur and perhaps clöaks wöuld dö us well.”

“It's not that cold yet.” Willow stared into the steady flames, knees pulled up to her chin and ignoring the goosebumps rising on her exposed arms. The seasonal change, especially into the cold and frozen of winter, never settled on her well. The heat and humidity of late spring and summer as a whole was hers, not these dark, dismal nights that dragged on and on, clouds of her breath as the very air stole her heat. 

“Still, it is better tö be ready.”

Willow glanced over to the viking just in time to see her set the cloth down, face a little cleaner, and then grab at her armor to peel off. Her underclothing wasn't quite as covering as her thick leather armor and Willows gaze quickly darted back to the flames, face heating up just a bit.

She wasn't naked or anything, and Willow scolded herself, glaring into the dancing fire. The viking wasn't a prude like the old witch, or practically everyone else really, and Willow herself was not a very covering person.

She had been extremely glad that the first time she had met Wickerbottom she had worn clothes; usually when she walked through forest fires, the flames dancing between her fingers and hair, she'd go in the nude. Clothes were a hassle when bathed in flames and she hated having to patch them up afterwards, all charred and burned up by the lovely embracing fire, and in the beginning she hadn't even realized that other people were out here too!

So she wasn't all that bothered by Wigfrids rather free lifestyle. It was common in the early morning to see the sturdy woman going about breakfast and gathering supplies without a top on of any kind.

Willow couldn't wait for the old woman to visit and be faced with that image. Her face was already so puckered up as if she sucked lemons for a living, how would she look when faced with the bare chested, well endowed woman offering her homemade meatballs and thick meaty stews as casually as ever?

Willows first time had been a little of a shock, but by now she was used to it.

She still averted her eyes though. Being around that uptight old crone had worn on her, and Wigfrid was, er, rather a sight to see.

As the viking cleaned herself up, using the leather and stained cloth to mop up still wet blood and scrub dried sweat and mud off of her chest and back, Willow realized that the fire was lowering.

“Yöur friend is in need öf a feast, Willöw.”

Wigfrid waved her hand to the flame, it smaller and dimmer, and Willow couldn't help but look at the woman beside her for a moment. 

Wigfrids braids were already undone, cascaded down her back and shoulders in a fiery wave, crows nest wrinkles under her eyes as she stared into the flames, lost in thought. Dirt was still on her forehead and in her hair, Willow briefly wondering if she was going to take a bath in some stream or other tomorrow, and then Wigfrid smiled a crooked, buck toothed smile and looked at her.

“Yöu gathered fööd för yöur lövely flame töday, yes?”

Willow stood up, nodded in silence and went to the chest to drag out some charcoal, her heart not at all pounding in her chest and face not red hot. Nope, not at all.

On the other side of the fire, the crackling flames waiting patiently for more fuel, the boar daemon sighed, a heavy breath rising and falling in his chest. The caracal daemon curled up on top of him yawned, stretching her paws and carefully kneading his bristly skin, sliding off after a moment and slinking over to his ugly wrinkled snout. She bumped her head against his face, rubbing herself against the larger daemon as she murmured and flicked her tail about lazily. 

And then, as the caracal daemons partner went back to sit in front of the flame, charcoal in hand as the other woman started a conversation of her hunt today, the speckled eggs glowing warm in their nest, she curled up next to the boar daemons face, her own looking into the flames of the feeding fire.

The boar huffed quietly and closed his eyes, perfectly fine with this situation in every way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Willow's daemon is a female Caracal cat named Wynne.
> 
> Wigfrid's daemon is a male wild boar named Wyot.


	4. Round and soft and gullible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of these are supposed to be short and random, really plotless actually.

Wilson fiddled with the item in his hands, claws clicking against the wire thin metal and tapping the glass of it as he sat in thought. His daemon was laying on his shoe, fat belly bulging over and brushing his calf, her damp hands and feet pressed into the soggy grass as she gurgled to herself, eyes closing slowly.

It had rained hard the last few days, making it even colder as winter approached, but the clouds had cleared and now it was only a waiting game until the snow storms would start to gather. Wilson didn't worry all too much about the upcoming freeze; he has already gotten what he needed, and the beefalo herds nearby as well as the bird he had locked up in a cage will hold them through the harsh season. And, if a giant showed itself, all he had to do was make sure it was more distracted with the forest nearby than the camp; the local treeguards he had carefully lulled to sleep would wake the moment the Deerclops started to knock trees over.

He had everything in control.

The scientist twisted the glasses in his hands around, carefully scratching his bearded chin in thought. He had been grave digging, had found a few scatter tombstones out in the dense pines, and his shovel leaned on a tree nearby, muddy and dented with use. 

It had been the usual in the grave, traces of remains, like the bits of bone and shredded clothing, eaten away by time and the scavengers in the earth. No gold or gems or even the odd trinkets that usually were buried with the dead though.

No, what he had found was a pair of glasses.

Wilson twirled the glasses around, the item rounded and thin lensed. He had at first thought they were Wickerbottoms, an old grave of the old ladys from back before they had all met, but she wore sharp, square glasses, with beaded chains that hung from her neck. These did not look at all like a librarians pair of glasses.

The tombstone itself hadn't given him any clues, the name worn out almost completely, only a large ‘W’ in the middle, though it looked as if there had once been a small quote on the bottom. Moss and the wear of time had erased the words however, so he had little idea on who once wore them.

Winnie wiggled on his foot, finally slipping off and brushing against the bark of the tree stump he was sitting on, a quiet whisper of sound from her as he tapped the glasses lens with a sharp claw, still pondering its existence.

“It's no one we know, that's for sure.”

The toad daemon settled, hands almost clasped together as she looked up at him, and Wilson let out a sigh and bent down, scooping her up carefully while still holding the glasses. She wiggled for a moment, long muscled legs stretching in the air, before Wilson let her on his lap, a damp patch already soaking into his clothing from her soggy belly.

Winnie liked the rain, the humidity, the wet. Wilson did not.

He had bad experiences in the rain and had been staying in camp while it stormed, holed up in his tent. Maybe once he had liked this weather, the chill and clean air, how it swept away misgivings, but this place had ruined it for him a long time ago.

“Maybe.”

Wilson shrugged, twirling the glasses around in his claws, and tried to think of a face that would wear them.

Round, like the glasses maybe. Wide eyes, starry eyed, someone with short soft hair and a gullible face, someone who trust too much and thought too much and believed in magic and fairy tales. Probably dressed funny, oddly, a little eccentric, especially with glasses that didn't seem all that serious, who dreamed up the oddest of things and wished them to be real. Dresses and the like, maybe, and Wilson found himself envisioning a lady to wear such things, round and gullible and so very soft.

Eh, he was probably wrong about that. Someone like that wouldn't be wandering around in this place for long, and eventually would stop being that way. Living here got rid of the roundness, gullibility, and softness of a person very, very quickly. He should know.

Though, he couldn't quite remember if he's ever been a “soft” or “round” sort of person.

Winnie slapped her damp hands on his vest, trying to distract him, and he pat her warty head. Looking up, seeing the slowly graying sky and the soon to come nighttime, Wilson sighed and lifted the toad daemon up, grabbing for the pack at his side and slipping her in with ease, ignoring her slight trill of disagreement. He stood up, straightened his back and stretched his arms before turning to pick up and then swing the bag onto his back, Winnie silent and steady as she poked her head out of the opening. The glasses however…

Wilson twirled them around again, fading light reflecting off of the round lenses, mind still pondering the image of a lady he's never met and will never meet. She was not even real anyway, just an image for him to put the glasses on.

After a moments thought, Wilson tucked them into the inside pocket of his vest, folded up and stored away. Maybe, if he asked around enough, he could find their owner. Not the lady his mind gave him to think about, but it was always good to have connections with the other people stuck around here, and returning something of theirs to them may put him in good standing. Better in the long run, anyway.

Patting his vest, making sure he wasn't leaving anything behind, Wilson hauled up the mud caked shovel and started back to his camp, whistling a familiar tune as he went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wilson's daemon is a female Cane Toad named Winnie. And yes, she does have poison, though things have to ingest the poison for it to kill.


	5. Pretty sick man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is definitely a platonic ship to me, but interpret it whatever way you wish.

“Doesn't it look at least a little pretty to you?”

The sunset was a slow one, streaks of orange and yellow and pink stretching over the calm waves, the air not too humid nor too dry. She wasn't asking a truly genuine question, laid back and relaxed against one of the palm trees that grew on this particular sandy bar that they were stuck on, legs crossed and not feeling all too harried at that moment.

Warly, however, was the complete opposite. He was trying to figure out what to do with all of the bananas they had on hand. And he was sort of having some trouble with that.

“Yes yes, it is pretty, but it is not a good idea to just…” he turned to look at her, both hands holding bunches of bananas, looking a little wild eyed as he hovered over his red crock pot, a little worse off than usual since their last encounter with the sea hounds. 

Damn things had taken out her board, and their little raft could be considered sunk by now. This rather small island had saved them from the fat maws squealing at them, but it was rather desolate compared to bigger places. The lack of variety was starting to get to Warly, and Walani really didn't know what to do when he got like that.

The man shook his head, rubbing his hand against his face (along with the bananas, but he didn't seem to notice) and sighed.

“If we don't get off this island, we will die.”

The glass bowl set in the sand next to him gurgled in agreement, a swish as the daemon inside it turned and wiggled and worried himself against his small cage. Walani raised an eye at the catfish daemon, his whiskers squished against the glass and gaping mouth opening and closing periodically, and a part of her wished they could find a better container for him.

But the last time she had tried to help with that Warly nearly had a fit. She had told him then that they weren't going to cook Winoc, that the crock pot was the perfect place for him to live in when they weren't making any food, but the man had stubbornly (and loudly) refused the idea.

So it wasn't really her problem if he wanted to keep his daemon all cramped and squished in a bowl that could easily break. 

Because it was made of glass. Glass.

Oh well. None of her business.

Walanis hand found her own daemon, lightly scratching over her scales and spines that rose up on her back. The iguana daemon closed her eyes and slipped her tongue out to slide over her scaly lips, calm and relaxed in her partners lap.

Warly returned back to his crock pot, turning a few of the banana bunches in his hands and pulling a few apart as he pondered whatever he usually pondered when he was looking at food, so he missed Walanis simple shrug and pursed lips.

“Pretty sure we're doomed already bud. No raft means no way off of this island, and no amount of bananas or coconuts are going to keep us alive for long.”

Her daemon shifted, opening one eye to watch the man, and when she spoke her voice startled him enough into almost dropping his bananas.

_“It's not as bad as you think, ya know? Next time it'll be better.”_ The iguana daemon licked her lips, snapping her jaws together. _“Maybe we'll find some limpets and eggs on another island.”_

Warly wavered at the thought, perhaps caught up in recipes for both limpets and eggs, but then he shook his head, closing his eyes to take a deep breath as his own daemon wriggled in his glass cage.

“I know you and Wikolia can see the silver lining in practically everything, but this situation is really dire Walani!”

Warlys voice rose for a moment and then he stopped, holding his head in his hands as he mumbled whatever else he was going to say.

Walani watched him narrow eyed, her daemon finally slipping off of her and waddling slowly towards his withering daemon. She really hadn't thought those hounds had given him that much trouble, but it was probably the bananas. 

Can't make much but jam and medleys with all this fruit, and eating it all the time sort of messed with his head. She was perfectly fine, but Warly had a few special, er, limits.

Walani stood up, stretching her arms above her as she approached him, and when he didn't react to her she carefully slipped the banana bunches from his grip. He was going to make a mess if he held onto those things any longer.

Chucking them into the crockpot, Walani sighed as Warly rocked on his feet, eyes closed tight and holding his head tightly.

Her daemon pushed her nose against the catfish daemons glass bowel, trying to get the fishes attention from all his wiggling about, tongue flicking out to brush over the glass and leave a wet trail.

“Look, it looks bad right now,” Walani carefully grabbed his wrists, pulling Warlys hands from his head and roughed up hair, “but like I always say, it's gonna be fine.” He wasn't mumbling anymore, but he definitely didn't want to open his eyes.

Which was fine. As long as he didn't get too manic.

She really didn't want to have to duck his head in sea water just to get him lucid again. Always made her feel like some sort of highschool bully.

“Hey, how about this: since we're kinda stuck here and you've been doing all the cooking lately, let me do all the food stuff until we die here, okay?”

Warly didn't answer at first, shoulders hunched up and still stubbornly not opening his eyes, but out of the corner of her eye Walani could see his daemon calm himself, gills flaring and whiskers swishing around as best as he could as her own daemon rose up and ducked her face into his water dish, nose brushing against his broad fishy back. And then she heard a mumble from the man in front of her and when she turned back he was staring at the ground, looking a little resigned.

“Huh?”

“I said, your cooking will end up killing us quicker.”

Walani leg go of his wrists and put her hands on her hips, mock glaring at him.

“I'm not some high end chef like you, but I can sure as hell make some good stuff when given the chance.” Walani turned away, eyes going back to see the sun continue its slow march down, evening drawing to a close. “And anyway, if I do end up poisoning our food, all the better right? We'll get outta here sooner.”

She wasn't quite expecting him to wrap his arms about her, burying his face against her neck.

“...We will have to meet up again.” Warly mumbled against her, quiet, and Walani sighed.

“Yeah…”

It wasn't all that nice, having some company for a few weeks before ending up leagues away again. That last round had lasted months before she caught up with him.

This time had only been a few days, and they had been getting along pretty well.

Damn hounds.

Oh well, couldn't be helped. They'd find each other again, just like always. It's gonna be fine.

“So, let's hurry up with this dying stuff then, right?” Walani untangled herself from his arms, turning herself around to look Warly in the face. He still didn't look as calm and collected as he usually was, but then again, he was still being faced with the choice of eating either jam or medley. Or even the bananas and coconuts just plain raw.

Walani smiled, bumped her forehead to his for just a moment, his eyes wide and still a little unfocused.

“I'll create the most soggy hunk of banana that ever existed, and you will end up eating it with me. And with all the cooking left to me, you can actually watch the sunset for once, kay?”

Off to the side, the iguana daemon had pulled herself out of the bowel, only her nose lapping at the water inside. The catfish daemon would twist and turn to raise his head, mouth gaping as he hummed and murmured to the listening lizard, still ever so squished but looking a bit more relaxed than he had been.

The iguana daemon swished her tail in the sand, back claws digging in and front claws gripping the bowels lip, and she murmured and trilled too, two daemons having a quiet conversation away from the ears of their now ever so slightly light hearted partners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Walani's daemon is a female Galápagos Marine Iguana named Wikolia.
> 
> Warly's daemon is a male Goliath Catfish named Winoc. He obviously hasn't reached his full size just yet, but that may be due to Warly's state of mind and who Warly is as a person.


	6. In the moons light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanons are in this one, most of which I have not touched upon yet and only are doing so lightly in this drabble.

The night glowed, a cold blue that washed over the pines and the meadow of transformed, heavily scented flowers. The yellows and reds of the fire pit were ablaze, a towering flame that wavered threateningly in the still air, and the feeder of the flames stared up into its mess of a core, tossing another pine cone in without a care in the world.

But the antics of the younger woman were no concern of Wickerbottoms, not now anyhow. She could raise the flames as high as she wished; if she so desired to burn down her tent than so be it. Wickerbottom was not going to involve herself tonight.

No no, the full moon was not the time for her to engage with Willow. Perhaps later, in the morning, she'd berate the young woman for being so hazardous, but tonight-

Tonight Wickerbottom had other matters to attend to.

Beefalo cloak wrapped about her thin shoulders, the walking cane in her hand, Wickerbottom took one more look about the camp, barely acknowledging the entranced form of her campmate. Willow was focusing on the fire for a reason; the flowers growing up throughout Wickerbottoms camp were now twisted and darkened with slick oil, the heady scent permeating throughout the meadow.

The old woman herself was being affected, the faint traces of a migraine blooming in the back of her head, but she just adjusted her glasses, pushing them up her hooked nose and then tightening the fur cloak around herself, gold cane helping her walk out of the camp. Willow did not even notice her leave, though the feline daemon pressed up to her side did, slit pupils following her retreating form and short tail flicking in agitation.

Neither of them got along with her, Wickerbottom knew, and Wynne knew that she knew and would creep up close, watch her as she wrote in her books or organized supplies. It was obvious what the both of them were up to.

After all, Wickerbottom knew what a cat looked like when it stalked its prey.

What this cat didn't seem to understand was that some creatures were much bigger, heavier, and just as hungry as them.

It wouldn't be the first time Wickerbottom has dealt with such hunts, but this one was going rather slowly. Perhaps the cat was starting to see the flaws in their plan?

Or perhaps they were just taking their time. The old woman has been around for too long, and she knew not to let her trust fall into the wrong hands.

And, even at such a young age, the soot and charcoal stained hands that helped her at camp were not to be trusted.

The flowers about here were large, thorned and barbed, and a few twitched as her cloak brushed by them, leaves and petals opening and turning as if they possessed heads, the twisted stalks of a few of them leaving barbed seeds in the fur, leaking dripping black oil from inside their spiny shells. Wickerbottom frowned at them, careful to watch her set and attempt to avoid the seeding flowers; cleaning this coat took time that she did not wish to waste.

The broken remains of a moonstone table sat before her, cleared of the rubble that usually cluttered its space. Now, only dark flowers grew near it, thorny vines crawling over its surface and overweight blossoms oozing black slime instead of nectar. The moon shone from above, full and fat and oozing blue light.

Wickerbottom had no use for the repaired version of this creation, its excess of violence not of her taste. The others, if they were to ever stumble across it, could play what they wanted upon it when they wanted to, but so far no interest has been shone on this structure.

A boon for the old woman, as she did not wish to be interrupted on these excursions. The full moon was of her kind, not the scientist or the pyromaniac or even the woodsman, his secrets bound tight behind his crooked teeth. The man had nothing to say to her about his own walks before the full moon nights, and prying was something she found she did not think would be satisfying.

Secrets here, big ones, were extraordinarily common in this place. Wickerbottom was patient; when Woodie wanted to share, she will be there, an open ear and neatly organized memory library where his secret could be stored with the rest of them. 

And, if anyone came to her willing to pay the price, then such a secret would be auctioned off with sincere thought and effort put behind it. All of their secrets sell high, and Wickerbottom had much she needed that such prices were quite profitable for her own work.

Standing, alone, in front of the cracked and eroded moonstone slab, cloak wrapped about her thin and cold frame, the cane in her slightly trembling wrinkled old hand and glasses reflecting the moons soft glow of blue light, Wickerbottom breathed in deeply, nostrils flaring and eyelids falling closed.

The swirling scent of the changed flowers filled this area, some twitching and throbbing as their petals glistened with oil, spines wavering in the still air. The silence of the glowing night carried on, long as the moon continued its path through the sky, the cold deepening.

It was only the sound of flapping, feathers and moving air and strong wings, that woke her up.

Wickerbottom looked up, into the empty, glowing night sky, the fat moon hanging above with a soft light. Something was moving, out in the darkness, fluttering through the blue darkness, and after a moment the old woman raised her arm, an offering over the decrepit moonstone shrine, the cold biting at her wrinkled, veiny hands.

Something heavy dropped down, wings flaring open and slowing its descent at the last moment, and with another flap of massive wings talons curled around her arm, belly and chest feathers puffed up and draping her skin in warmth.

Wickerbottom lowered her arm slightly, the head of the bird turned to her, two dark, shining eyes locked with her own hooded ones, glasses hanging on her hooked nose.

“My, are we not a little late tonight, deary?”

For the first time in a long while, Wickerbottom smiled. Her bird daemon, white ruff of feathers on his neck puffed up, his dark balding skin and shrunken comb not suited for this weather, ruffled his wings, heavy weight upon her arm. Had he landed on anybody else besides her, they would be unable to carry him, or really hold him at all.

He clapped his beak together, a loud clicking noise in the flower infested clearing, and with that the old woman pulled him in close and buried her face into his feathers, smiling all the while. If she was trembling, from cold or otherwise, the bird daemon did not mention it.

 _“Better late than never.”_ said he, nipping and nibbling at the fur coat around her shoulders, his leathery and scaly talons tightening their grip on her. 

For a long while she was unable to speak, only hold her daemon to her, the migraine in the back of her head lessening, softening with his presence. It's been ages since she last saw him, on that touchstone surrounded by the savage offerings of the pigmen. 

“Has your research been going well?” She didn't stop holding him, other wrinkled hand twining into his dark feathers, didn't even pull back to look him cordially in the face like the proper woman that she was.

Wickerbottom has put in her time; can't an old witch have a few affectionate moments with her daemon, even in this world?

 _“Times are changing, and the world is different than it was before.”_ The bird daemon pressed his neck against her head, still dragging his beak almost comfortingly through the thick beefalo hide cloak. _“...Plant life has become more abundant.”_

“Thorns and roses, I presume?” Wickerbottom didn't even need a confirmation to know that she was correct, instead petting through the glossy feathers of her daemons back. 

She was dragging this conversation out, she knew, but Wickerbottom has been needing to comfort herself for awhile.

Knowing that she harbored a willing killer in her camp was stressful, especially when she knew she was actively being hunted.

Willow was not an evil person, Wickerbottom could not call her such a thing, but that did not change the situation. Soon enough, she will be finding herself once more upon a touchstone, her confused, hurt daemon hunched beside her.

But right now, daemon pressing against her, nestled against her shoulder and preening her fur coat in an effort to comfort her, Wickerbottom only closed her eyes and breathed a heavy sigh, wrinkled old face in shiny dark feathers and thin arm wrapped by warm leathery talons.

A witches daemon was always on the move, always traveling, always leaving. It was rare that they ever came back, and she was not going to waste her time with him by worrying herself so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Willow's daemon is a female Caracal cat daemon named Wynne.
> 
> Wickerbottom's daemon is a male Andean Condor named Washti. Wickerbottom is indeed a witch like in the His Dark Materials series, so her daemon can leave her for long periods of time and go very, very far away.


	7. Said the wrong thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explanation for Maxwell's daemon in the end notes.

“Now that I think about it, I never saw your daemon until the Throne.”

Wilson clicked his tongue in thought, eyeing the small gray bird perched on one of the longer bits of his alchemy machine. The daemon tilted their head, wide ruby ringed eyes watching him, shuffling small scaled feet on the rugged metal plates of the bar. If the daemon had been any heavier, the lever would have been slotted into place and something would have happened to the machine.

What exactly that would have been, Wilson had no clue, though his best guess would have been an untimely failure on the machines part and the ensuing explosion would have probably killed both him and the feathered daemon in one go.

That was, of course, speculation. The man had no idea on what the engine could accomplish, in working order or not.

“Vast amounts of energy and will are required to manifest a successful illusion, Higgsbury. You should know this. Wasting time on a daemons false form was not worth it.”

“You mean you didn't want anyone to see that you had a little itty bitty pigeon for a daemon, not some hulking wolf or one of those shadow monsters?”

Wilson interjected, voice lilting and a little mocking, his own daemon wiggling around in the backpack that hung from his boney back. Winnie listened quietly, relaxed in the little safety net he had created for her, and the toad daemon pushed around for a moment before lifting her head through the opening of the pack, blinking glassy eyes at the former Nightmare King. He had been looking through chests, a rope twisted in one of his hands, and the man caught Winnie watching him and glared, wrinkled face pulled ever downwards.

“You know you could have just changed their appearance, right? I did that with Winnie…” 

Wilson reached an arm behind him, tapping claws lightly against his backpack before lighting upon Winnies warty skin and giving her a thoughtful pat. He remembered his thought process then, of the spines on her skull and backbone, the huge, well muscled limbs and toothy jaws that split her fat, thick skinned body in half into a horrifying grimace that easily struck fear into a puppets heart. She hadn't complained; in all actuality, she was the one to come up with such an idea. 

Even with the Thrones cloying affect drying her out and draining her very essence, Winnie was ever resourceful and clever. Wilson himself had been ready to give up, pinned in place and feeling even more hopeless than ever, the journey down having sapped his strength and will well beyond what he could even give.

At least until Winnie and he had figured out exactly what should be done and what they could even do, with this new power of theirs, the whispers and cooing voices out in the darkness directing them. 

But that was long over now, the faint traces of scars on his wrists and ankles still visible, phantom pain a reminder, tinges and flashes of old detested thought, and Maxwell's presence was ever a memory of that time and before then, back when only a static fuzzed voice had whispered to him in the abandoned decrepit house that he had named his own. The radio had been alarmingly cheerful company, and a part of him missed those mindless working days.

Winnie did not, was not all that welcome to their former tormentors presence in their camp, but Wilson had made up his mind and stuck with his decision. Maxwell could stay as long as he was useful to him, and so far he was rather valuable. The former demon's grasp on the occult and odds and ends of the shadows was a reasonable reason to keep him around, especially since the rest of him was especially...unsavory.

Having someone around whose very face sent a shudder of fear down Wilsons back and spun him into a plethora of hazy memories was not good for his health, but his magic was valuable.

And Wilson just couldn't find it in himself to kill the old man, here where they were both on equal footing. He knew he could do it, with enough eager coaxing from Winnie, and it couldn't be said that he found too much discomfort with blood on his hands, even if it was from another human, but the former King was…

Well, put simply, he was a pitiful sight.

Wilson had seen him hidden in the bushes then, finally off the Throne himself, and had subconsciously dropped his worn weapon and had sprung upon the taller spindly man, anger pouring from his throat and hands balled into fists as his confusion of steeped rage rained from him, and Maxwell had stood no chance. When they had to get back to the fire, daemons scrambling against each other and still huffing and puffing from the sprint away from the claws of the dark, Wilson had turned his head and had found himself looking back at an old, aging man bruised and shaking and already getting a black eye from one good smack Wilson had delivered, face curdled and sharp teeth bared in discomfort, daemon held tightly against his chest and shoulders drawn high.

Wilson hated the man, and he may be a willing, gung ho murderer when it came to this sort of hatred, but Wilson could not find it in himself to spill Maxwells blood in a fatal manner. It just didn't feel...right.

At least, maybe not yet. At some point one of them was going to slip up and Wilson would have to make the hard decision of ending the old man's life in favor of keeping his own safe.

Not something he wanted to think of often. The eyes in the dark would blink open and wide whenever his mind wandered into such territories, and he did not quite want to give them that satisfaction.

Not yet at any rate. They can wait, just like he was. They were, after all, more patient than himself.

Winnie shuffled in his pack and he felt her weight shift, a drop in his gut at her antics, and Wilson swiftly swung the backpack off, handling it carefully as the toad daemon struggled her arms out from the opening. He crouched down and let her flop out into the dry grass, the daemon giving him a look and flicking her tongue over her eye, a gesture he understood clearly as thanks. The shuffling of the chest and its insides drew his attention back to his campmate, looking over as Maxwell huffed and grew irritated, digging into the chest with a little more anger than necessary.

“You know I'm right.” Wilson rose back up, daemon hopping onto one of his shoes and slapping her damp hands against his pants, eyes unblinking and glazed as she twitched her head to stare up at the wavering pigeon daemon still perched above them. “You could have just given them a freakier skin. No one would have guessed.”

Maxwell made a sound much like a cross between a growl and a sigh, shoulders tense as he straightened up and slammed the chest lid shut, making Wilson jitter slightly at the sudden aggravated noise. The man didn't even look at him as he turned away, hands fiddling with the rope still twined on his arm, Winnie pushing her warty skinned side against Wilson's leg as the both of them recognized that the action was no threat.

“I suppose…” Maxwell's voice was as empty as usual, a hint of the sharpness lingering as he suddenly turned around and glared down at Wilsons smaller stature, face drawn tight and as grim as ever, voice turning snappish. “I suppose I have higher standards when it comes to changing the appearance of my partner.”

With a flick of his hand the pigeon daemon took off from the machine with a flutter of soft cooing noise and landed a little heavily on Maxwell's offered hand, the man not even looking at Wilsons rather offended face as he turned and walked away.

“Well…!” Wilson blustered for a moment, face red with the knowledge of what the man meant, and he bared his teeth as he tried and failed to come up with some sort of retort. Why was it so hard for him to remember how to curse someone out!?

Hands curled tight at his sides, Wilson huffed in a breath and finally pieced together something comprehensible to yell back.

“Screw you too then!”

It didn't sound all that heavy handed as he had imagined it to sound, especially with his stressed squeak of a voice, and Maxwell didn't even turn around, turning to follow a path that went out to one of the forests, daemon perched on his shoulder. Even from here Wilson could see the daemons ruby dimmed eyes, head turned to watch him before they disappeared behind some trees.

“Screw you too…”

Wilson hissed, gaze glaring at the grass that grew under his feet, the toad daemon on his shoe slipping off, still on tip toe and puffed up, eyes bulging and unblinking in the direction the man had left in. 

It wasn't like everyone never thought about changing themselves! Becoming someone bigger, threatening, intimidating even, the power to look like they held that power and be known for controlling everything, anything around them. Winnie was nothing but a fat, heavy eyed toad outside of that Throne Room, but inside and overflowing with the power it gave so willingly?

She had reflected his sharper changes, bigger, toothier, narrow eyed and just as terrible as the barrel chested hounds Maxwell had liked so much. She had reigned over the pawns daemons just as much as he had reigned over their partners, had helped him in dragging obedience and respect out of them, and for those who didn't give it…

Well, the satisfaction of ripping the very being of a person apart was shared between both daemon and Shadow King, dust pouring out of her jagged maw and blood drenched over his own hands.

“...Oh.” said Wilson quietly, sudden realization dawning upon him. Winnie had quieted, had turned away to hop over to the alchemy machine, already trying to distract him.

Maxwell's daemon had given way under her malformed illusions jaws just as easily as everyone else's, feathers and dust and soft, quiet bird screams, and Wilson still knew what the man's blood felt like in his hands, what a pulse was against his fingers and the sight of breath leaving a torn chest.

Perhaps bringing up the time he had on the Throne was just not something to be done.

He narrowed his eyes, staring at nothing for a moment before swinging around to follow his daemons lead, to tinker with the machines mechanics and distract himself. 

It was not good to dwell on those memories, not good to remember them even. It invoked too much wrath in him, too much raw energy that made his arms shake and made him want to spontaneously dig for that door once more and dive back downwards, to drag himself back to that place. His chest ached without that power, ached from the wanting of it, the importance and scale and reputation he gained from it, the very feeling of utter control over everything that was him and everything that now circled in orbits around him. The world had revolved around Wilson when he had been Shadow King.

He had to not think about such things. He lost that power, and he'd not be getting it back ever again.

That was for the best, and Winnie looked him in the eye, standing on her back feet with her damp hands patting against his pant leg, and he leaned down to scoop her up, the feeling of constriction in his chest easing with her closeness.

“Probably shouldn't have mentioned it at all.”

Winnie trilled at him in answer, a soft confirmation of her own. She knew what dust tasted like, what it was like to grapple with a daemon smaller, or even bigger than her. She knew what it was like, to watch the very soul of someone slip away in her jaws, and to crush down even harder, to drag out another screech from both daemon and partner.

She knew what grey feathers tasted like and the soft scrambling of a bird in her mouth, right as she squeezed down.

With that Wilson carefully set her on the table next to the machine, the daemon watchful with where she placed her damp limbs, avoiding charcoal scribbled papyrus and bits and pieces of gears and metal and gold. Wilson stretched his arms, rolling his shoulders and neck before hunching over once more, claws going to the open wires and gears of the machine. 

It was better to not think of the past, he thought to himself, Winnie’s presence softened with agreement as she settled, watching him work.

He wouldn't want to end up repeating his mistakes, that was for sure, and reminiscing strained the ache in him that wanted to do it, all over again.

He wasn't that sort of person, he was sure of that. Wilson may not be the best man around, and wasn't at all innocent of sin, but he wasn't as indiscriminately haunting as he had been on the Throne.

Power corrupts, Wilson thought sternly, eyes narrowed as he turned an electric, er, thing in his claws. It wasn't him that really, truly did that, nor wanted all that.

It wasn't him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wilson's daemon is a female Cane Toad named Winnie.
> 
> Maxwell's daemon is a male Ring-Necked pigeon/dove called William.
> 
> An explanation: I've read (somewhere? I don't know where) that perhaps daemons, even after Settling, may change as their partner changed. Say, from some sort of dog to a cat, as the person changes and grows into a new person after their Settling age.
> 
> So, as William took the name Maxwell and became the Shadow King, he changed as a person, took on a roll as that persona and "did away" with who he once was. The very drastic change did shift his daemon, from a rabbit to a pigeon/dove (doves and pigeons are actually the same thing apparently?), and Maxwell did indeed rename his daemon with his old name.


	8. Look over there!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of Wes's daemons quotes come from frenchpoetry.tumblr.com. His daemon is sort of cryptic and speaks rather randomly.

_“La tristesse durera toujours.”_

The mime sighed heavily, painted face turned downward sharply, and he clung to himself, arms wrapped around his chest and digging his fingers into his red sweater as his daemon wiggled about on top of him, just trying to get comfortable.

Outside, he could see the grass shift with the breeze, the river that separated chess tiled ground from the natural earth, swift water current just visible from his position, clear and see through to the pebble swept bottom. The suns setting rays shone over the tile with a blazing light that made him squint, hurting his eyes even more with the hulking machinery metal plated and steam hissing, sputtering and puttering about the board. Wes had found them to be of interest in the beginning, fascinating really, these beings that had a coding so intently twined into this world, sentient in a way he was still unsure of, but now, after so long here…

Such things didn't seem as yearned after as much as the very breeze that blew before him, so close yet so far out of reach.

The muffle of the machine engines was so very muted, almost completely silent in this place even as they tripped upon their own metal feet and clicked to each other, talkative in their own, small way.

_“J’attends qu’le jour se lève et brille sans nous.”_

The daemon in his lap whispered, throaty and heavy, a long, thick tongue slithering from his jaws and flicking the air right next to Wes’s ear. Wes didn't react to the glob of drool that oozed in stringy strands from his lizard daemons maw, his baggy sweater already soaked in places and glistening with his daemons saliva. After a moment he untangled one of his hands from under his daemons large, scaly belly and brushed his fingers along a rough scaled neck, wrinkled skin of his daemons throat against his gloved hands.

His daemon wiggled, slowly tilting his head to eye Wes, tongue slithering out and snapping in the air as thick claws tangled in the mimes clothes, and his daemon grunted, tail bent at an odd angle in their prison and heavy weight mostly on top of his partner as he tried to shift into a position more comfortable. Wes pushed against the invisible walls around him, trying to avoid the swinging strands of drool from the lizard daemons gaping mouth.

After a few seconds of struggle, the daemon let out a heavy sigh and slumped over his partner, saliva covered neck pressed up against the side of the mimes face, the thwump of his heavy scaled body knocking the air out of Wes’s thin chest. Wes didn't even struggle, sliding uncomfortably down the invisible wall, taking short breaths as he focused on attempting to keep his painted face away from his daemons drool. He didn't know how many close calls it has been now, his daemon struggling or flipping or even just plain clawing frantically at the walls with him doing everything he could to keep his face unmussed. He had no paints in this box, nothing at all but the seamless marble flooring under his feet and his overly large lizard daemon.

Usually it wasn't a bad thing, being close to ones daemon. But, in this claustrophobic prison, his hands meeting a solid surface every which way, knees always bent and unable to even stand, sometimes even feeling as if the walls were shrinking around him, even his other half was starting to feel too close, too pressed together, trapped.

There was nothing Wes could do. Touching Wieland, trying to convey a sense of peace or safety with his hands had an adverse effect now, the cloying feeling of his own self comfort wrapping up his chest and making him choke.

Some days, the bad days where the weather was so, so close, right before his fingertips, those days were the ones where he himself couldn't help struggling.

Wieland hadn't bit him as of yet, and Wes hadn't stepped on his tail so far, so things still hadn't gotten to the point of madness.

Not yet anyway. Wes didn't know how much longer he could last, and his daemon was on the lower end of the spectrum when it came to keeping one's patience.

_“J’veux m’dire que c’est possible.”_

The lizard daemons tongue slipped out, saliva dripping from his jaws, and the invisible wall sparkled with flung drops of drool, his forked tongue brushing against the invisible and leaving a trail of wet to dribble down its side. With his large head raised, scales and beady black eyes looking out into the distance, across the free flowing river and to the green, living forest beyond, tongue flicking out once more, Wes could practically feel his own heartbeat slowing down, drawing a shuddering breath under his daemons bulk at the crushing despair of it all.

They've been stuck in here for so long. So, so long now.

Wes was beginning to lose hope. Wieland had lost his a long time back, and only pinned and struggled because of his partner.

Once Wes gave up, it would be the end for them.

It was terrifying to think about.

_“J’attends qu’le jour se lève et brille sans nous.”_

Wes watched his daemon press his scaly head against the nothingness trapping them, tongue flicking out once more to leave drool trails in the air. With a heavy sigh, his own daemons breaths pushing against him from Weiland's heavy belly, Wes closed his eyes and wished, wished very, very hard, that someday he could feel the grass in his hands and the wind in his hair again.

It was silent, muffled, the outside world all but deaf to them and they nonexistent to it, so Wes and his daemon, one sagging with despair and the other looking off into the forest and yearning, missed the flurry of activity.

And then there was a sound, a knocking.

 

Wes opened his eyes slowly, not at all expecting anything, thinking perhaps one of the machines was brushing by them, and for a moment he was just about ready to dismiss the metal thing that hung about their cage.

And then Weiland withered, twisting himself around, claws tangling in his partners clothing and tugging against him, beady black eyes looking up and thick tongue flicking out vainly to catch a scent.

Wes couldn't sit himself up, lizard daemons heavy weight settled on him, so all he could do was look up wide eyed at the robot and the daemon atop it's head.

The huge butterflies wings shimmered as they closed and opened, bulbous eyes watching them and antenna twitching, and the robot loomed over the invisible box, metal hand lowering from where it had been knocking.

Around it were fallen constructs, metal beings that whirred brokenly and hissed steam, and in the distance on another part of the board were the rest of them, hulking and watching from a distance.

Wes looked up and down over the robots rusted appearance, metal dented in places and even torn in others, inner workings made of gears and wires, its face expressionless and blank.

Perhaps the others were afraid of it. Gazing into its dark face, gaping holes so plainly set into it, he supposed they had a right to be afraid.

If he hadn't been behind these bars, then Wes would be too.

The butterfly crawled with thin spindly legs over the robot's head, grasping into its eyes and mouth as it wandered over its face, long curled tongue raised to not drag over the aging metal. It rose itself, front legs waving in the air helplessly, looking almost funny before it met the invisible prison.

The robot didn't react, just watched, as Weilands claws struggled to get a grip on the inner walls and raise himself, tail twisted to drag against the mimes neck, shifting weight causing Wes a bit of distress as he tried to keep breathing. The lizard daemon eyed the butterfly, gaze to gaze, long tongue flicking out to brush the wall, thick stringy saliva dripping from his jaws.

Wes looked up at the robot, knowing that large butterfly was a daemon, yellow and blue wings twitching in the breeze, wondering how such a thing even had one in the first place, before both robot and butterfly moved.

The colorful daemon slipped off the metal carapace, wings fluttering as it kept itself aloft, and the robot pulled back, gazing down at the mimes loosely curled, limp form.

And then, butterfly daemon fluttering about in the lizard daemons face and yet blocked off, the robot hissed steam that Wes could not even hear, could only watch the puffs of it rise in the air as the metal automaton shuddered and then swung around, away from him.

Wes watched, feeling that hope that had been growing in his chest slowly die, Wieland sagging against the invisible cage and lowering his head, large body tangled with his partners. The robot moved between the bodies of its kin, some still huffing and puffing and struggling to stand, to attack and defend.

A knight shuddered against the marble flooring, Wes watching as its glowing eyes rolled and metal plating rip off of it with its struggles, and for a moment the robot stopped before it, unperturbed by its raging and flailing about.

When it lifted its foot and stomped down, crushing its weight onto the knights neck and ripping through, Wes decided that perhaps it was better that it wasn't setting him free. He didn't want to know what such a thing could do to him if it so chose.

The butterfly daemon fluttered and brushed the prison with its spindly legs, almost fixated on them, before it darted back over to the robot, who had crouched down and now was ripping into the metal and wires of the construction collapsed before it.

_“Tu peux pleurer, t’as le droit.”_

Weiland's tongue slithered out, beady eyes watching the butterfly daemon land upon its partners head, glittery yellow wings opening and closing slowly. Wes let out the breath he had been holding, the weight of the lizard daemons belly and tail heavy and keeping him from getting comfortable, but it wasn't like he had any choice when it came to comfort.

_“Il y aura des jours meilleur.”_

Wielands eyes were trained on them, watching the robot tear the fallen constructs into pieces as it ripped gears and wires from the mechanical corpses, gathering chunks in its hands, a pile that grew as its daemon skittered about on its metal head and flared its wings in the sunlight. Wes closed his eyes and sighed, relaxing under his daemon and falling into a doze.

The lizard daemon watched the pair of them, intimidatingly tall and rusted metal bot and its shiny, blank eyed daemon, and when they turned their backs on the cannibalized husks of scrap metal and the invisible prison he continued to watch, staring after the robot as it trailed a cloud of steam behind it.

When they disappeared into the forest, the sound of them muted since the very beginning, neither had turned to look one final, last time at the jailed prisoners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wes's daemon is a *drum roll* male Komodo Dragon named Wieland! He could have had something like a large snake or a simple lizard, but the Dragon seemed to fit him better in my opinion.
> 
> WX78's daemon is a Giant Swallowtail Butterfly named Wednesday.


	9. Nothing is wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maxwell refers to his daemon as a dove, while a few of the other survivors (like Wilson) will refer to him as a pigeon. 
> 
> Again, it turns out both are correct since both birds are practically the same thing besides size.

A soft coo of sound, quiet, low, almost ignored before a flutter of wings and feathers landed in the grass beside him. The sun did not reflect off of grey feathers, a dark collar of black feathers around the neck in the sun, and the gray dulling of age was bathed in light.

Maxwell turned his head to watch the dove daemon, face drawn tight and stiff as the daemon twisted and turned, ruby ringed eyes gazing at him with glazed pupils.

A flapping of wings, the bird daemon hopping about in the soggy strands of wet grass, the recent storm having left the air humid and the suns rays strong, now free from the dark clouds.

The moment the daemon started to inch towards him, head turning this way and that, dulled eyes watching him, Maxwell tensed, shoulders drawn tight and wrinkled face darkening.

“Don't, William.”

William stopped for a moment at the sound of his name, wide, glazed eyes unblinking as they stared at each other. And then the bird daemon hopped a bit closer, testing the boundaries.

Maxwell was still, face still snarled into a threat, and he wished he hadn't even decided to go for a walk after the storm. The sun may be out and he may be able to sit in it for awhile unbothered by anyone else, but his own daemon was pushing his luck. William knew this, yet took a few more hops closer, still eyeing him, still silent.

Ever since he's came here, to this place, ever since the beginning of the Throne, William has not said a single word. The daemon had stopped talking the instant shadow hands and tendrils had wrapped themselves around Maxwells arms and legs, pinned him into a dark chair made of tar and thorns and smoke. Nothing, nothing at all, could get the daemon to talk.

Maxwell was quite fine with this. Really, he greatly enjoyed the silence from his other half, now able to glare and shoot stern looks at those with too talkative daemons, the ones who liked to babble and drag on the ears.

What he wasn't fine with was the daemons behavior. William had changed.

And so had he, but that did not matter. Rabbit or bird, it did not matter. There was no reason to wonder the why of it.

William had a rabbit daemon. Maxwell had a dove daemon. No one was asking questions, including himself, and it would stay that way.

It did not matter.

With another few hops the daemon was right in front of him, tiny claws curled in the grass and dirt, head tilted to look him in the eye. Maxwell sighed heavily, still glaring at the dove daemon, still tense, gloved fingers curled tight into fists.

“No, William.”

William watched him for a long moment, held his gaze, a small, fragile grey bird, signs of aging and missing feathers speckled about his body, the collar of black feathers around his neck dulled. And then William ducked his head, spread his wings, and flapped up to Maxwell's knee.

For a moment there was nothing, silence, as Maxwell stared into the pitiful, almost desperate eyes of his daemon, the dove trembling fitfully, his hands clawed into fists as tiny talons grasped onto his pants tightly.

It felt like he could breath freely, actually feel a weight lift from him for a brief moment, a light, airy bubble in his chest that almost soothed the migraine that has been plaguing him for days.

And then Maxwell hissed, sharp and short and full of hatred, and brushed the dove daemon off of him, watching William flutter his wings in a panic as he thumped to the ground, a fitful mess of shaking feathers and bulging ruby ringed eyes, beak open slightly as he panted, little bird heart pounding harshly. 

The man curled his arms close to his chest, latching onto himself in a makeshift hug, and turned his head away to completely ignore the doves distress, the bird daemons wings drooping and a few stray feathers falling into the mud and grass. He ignored the daemons obvious fit, the bird collapsed on the ground and puffing up, still panting harshly for breath, and instead suddenly stood up, ignoring how his own knees knocked together and his own heart stuttered terribly.

It did not matter, that William acted this way. It did not matter that it affected him so.

It did not matter.

It only took a few strides forward before the sharp twinge in his chest struck, almost made him stumble as the pain in his heart intensified. Their binding together was altogether much shortened after their time on the Throne, and it made him rage at the feeling, having that string tie him down once more with pain, sharp and burning as it spread through his veins.

Maxwell cleared his throat, arms still about himself, shoulders trembling and still looking as if he'd fall right over, before he growled out a few words, glaring at nothing in particular.

“Let's go.”

He didn't get an answer of course, and he didn't turn his head to look, instead burning a hole into an unfortunate tree with his gaze, wrinkled face dark and curling into a tight, angry expression. A few moments passed, only the sound of the wind in the trees and the frantic beats of his own heart, keeping stiff and still as the tether keeping daemon and partner together tightened with a fatal threat.

For a moment, Maxwell considered taking a step forward, getting it over with.

He knew what that felt like, however, and it would hurt even more when he woke up newly revived. William had it easy, bursting into powdery gold dust; the daemons partner took much longer to die.

The silence stretched and Maxwell's patience weakened. His grip on his arms twisted, hunching his shoulders as he weathered the pain.

“I said, let's go.”

That caused something, a flutter of wings behind him, the sound of shuffling and movement, but the tethering still kept him tightly pinned. William wasn't moving quickly enough for Maxwells liking.

With that his patience snapped and Maxwell whirled around, stomping over to the fallen bird daemon. Said daemon was struggling, eyes half lidded as he stumbled and dragged his talons, losing even more feathers as he tripped towards Maxwell's shoes. William silently turned his head up, wavering gaze locking with his own, the little dove shaking and looking even worse than usual. 

Just being close to him was making something in Maxwell's chest feel like it was dying, dropping from the sky and curling in on itself, wilting away into rot.

Disgusting, and Maxwell curled his lips at the pitiful daemon before him and hissed at him, leaning over ever so slightly to seem more imposing.

“When I say ‘let's go’, I mean it. Now,” Maxwell huffed in a breath, arms still tightly crossed over his chest, almost as if to try and stop the stuttering pounding of his own heart, “let's,” and he brushed his shoe against the bird daemons side, a limp wing being pushed against as the daemon trembled even harder, “go.”

With that he nudged the daemon not so gently forward, a harsh shove with the tip of his shoe, and the dove daemon stumbled forward, tripping over his own wings and talons. It didn't take another forceful push, William tumbling forward and losing feather behind him, down and flight feathers alike as he shook and kept moving his legs forward one step at a time.

Maxwell shuddered in a breath, holding it in for a moment, trying to remember how to breath again before letting it out, and then slowly, forcefully unwrapped his arms from about himself and held them stiffly at his sides, hands curled into fists. His daemon scrambled over tangled grass and through mud before him, and only a few steps forward made him have to change his pace slower with his daemons.

Maxwell knew he could cut the time he was wasting in half, knew he could just pick up William and not go through all this hassle, be back at camp in good timing.

But William deserved this. He was pushing his luck, thinking he could get away with something like that.

Maxwell was not going to allow such things. The daemon knew his place, knew it well.

Maxwell watched eagle eyed as the dove daemon tripped, mucked up his chest feathers with mud and dirt, still shaking fitfully and still losing grey and black feathers in a trail behind him that Maxwell's shoes squashed down into the mud, the daemon scrambling forward to avoid getting stepped on, trying to keep a steady pace.

He deserved this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maxwell has a male Ring-Necked pigeon/dove called William.
> 
> Another explanation: daemons are who a person is, in another body I suppose. It's not two in two bodies or one split into two, it's who both of them are, they are one being, neither are split from the other.
> 
> The human part, however, can decieve and lie to themself, while the daemon part is more true to form. A person who has problems/issues/disorders with who they are will have a daemon that reflects that.
> 
> (The others have hints of different behaviors as well because of who their partner is, though Wilson, Wes, and Maxwell are the only ones to treat their daemons in an oddly specific way.)


	10. Stare even more

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More headcanons mixed into this one, and very light shipping.
> 
> Also this got very long and I didn't mean for it to be this long gosh...

_“Bien vivre c’est se préparer à mourir sans regrets.”_

Wilson leapt away, almost tripping on his own feet at the deep voice, throat constricting as, for a moment, he couldn't find the speaker.

And then something large moved on the ground, claws swinging out to dig into the dirt as its head rose to stare at him, beady black eyes shining even in the dusk light. He slowly exhaled, jaw grit together as his heart thundered in his chest, and that constricting, tangled feeling in him didn't ease off, seemed to get worse and make him light headed as he looked down at the lizard daemon.

And then Wilson realized that he was the one causing that, his own daemon wiggling fanatically and kicking her long legs out in a panic, his blackened arms wrapped around her and pressing her to his chest too tightly. With a hastily mumbled “sorry”, eyes flicking between the large lizard daemon and his own toad daemon, Wilson bent down and carefully set her down, her dampness having an effect on his clothing and making his skin feel slightly sticky.

Winnie trilled, eyes wide and bulging as she twitched her head up to him, almost glaring at him, before she stretched out her arms and legs and moved to his shoes, crawling over grass and dry earth.

When Wilson looked back at his visitor, the lizard daemons huge, thick tongue slithering out of its mouth with ease, jaws slathered with stringy oozing saliva, he couldn't help but shiver at the stare it was giving him. 

He's never been entirely too comfortable around other daemons, which was perfectly normal, but this one…

Well, his campmate was rather odd, so he supposed his daemon would be as well.

The man still hasn't given up his name yet, but that wasn't much of a problem. The real issue was the fact that Wilson had no idea who he was, how he got here, or literally anything about him at all due to the fact that the man was also a mime.

And mimes didn't speak, he was pretty sure of that.

The mimes daemon, however, threateningly large and scaly and full of claws and teeth and drool, was quite talkative.

_“Quand on ne peut ni tuer ni se tuer reste la folie.”_

It tilted its head, still locking it gaze with his, and his own daemon at his feet brushed up against him, his anxiety shared with her as the lizard slinked closer to them.

Normally he'd walk away; Wilson did not know the language, and the daemons partner didn't seem interested in helping him out either. The continual breach of space was cloying as well, made it a little harder to breathe.

The problem was that the mimes daemon seemed to not understand personal space. The problem was that everytime he let it get close to him, the closer it would try to get.

Wilson didn't know if he liked that or not. The size of its jaws, the teeth he has seen, the way it would rip apart things it found in the grass or snapped at butterflies and bees, the very close, very dangerous aspect of that maw was much too close to the other monsters in this place.

If he had met the daemon first and not the man, then he would have incorrectly assumed it was something that would want to eat him.

Though, that was still up for debate. It may still want to eat him, and cannibalism wasn't exactly something he's never thought of either, Wilson couldn't lie about that.

Forcefully breaking eye contact with the slinking lizard daemon, still feeling its beady eyes on him, still knowing it was scooting closer to him, Wilson surveyed his shoddy camp. It wasn't permanent by any means, but it's not often when he is accompanied by someone else who also needs to eat and drink and sleep and survive every day. Actually, make that a practically never. It was hard, finding someone out here who actually wanted to camp together, especially with him.

Wilson was no idiot; he knew the feeling of odd looks all too well, and, even though he never thought he'd be looked at like that ever again, it seems that this place had people who were still a little...strict about such things.

But that sort of thing has stopped mattering to him a long while back, when he was all alone, when it seemed apparent he'd never see anybody “real” ever again. He did what he wished in his own camps, and those who took offense could see themselves out whenever they wanted.

Apparently, however, the mime wished to keep company with him. Why exactly, he obviously didn't, and couldn't, know, but hey, it wasn't all bad. 

The man knew how to take care of himself fairly well. He hasn't been a drag on Wilson as of yet, so letting him stay around wasn't a hassle.

Besides this whole, er, daemon thing.

Wilson squinted his eyes in the darkening sunlight, the sunset just starting, and with great deliberation and forcefully staring straight ahead, he left the lizard daemon and made his way to the empty firepit, Winnie hopping after him quickly.

 _“Quelque chose me dit que ça va mal finir!”_ The daemon yelled after him, a hissing noise afterwards and a loud thwump of its tail against the grass. Wilson curled his claws into bony fists and ignored it.

Tossing logs and then using flint and sparks to light the fire, claws careful around the flames as he eased it up to a comforting level, Wilson sighed heavily. His own daemon was at his side, tongue flicking out to lick over her bulbous eyes, warty skin pressing against him, and he reached a clawed hand out to pat her on the head, somehow trying to comfort himself.

It didn't ease his stress, but the paranoia of that lizard daemon moving about his camp, thick drool dripping all over the ground into slimy trails, still hung in his mind.

The mime wasn't as foreboding as his daemon; at least, he didn't seem as scary. But that was the issue.

The man seemed rather slow, perhaps a little simple to Wilson, though he wasn't the sort to judge people on that. After all, he was once part of that group.

(He just never wanted to think about what the Knowledge had done to him to change that)

But it was obvious that his daemon was rather...varying compared to its partner. The aggression and carefree, almost confident way it walked was opposite the mimes ways. The man was not at all aggressive, was always alert and watching and silent.

Not like his daemon.

“What does that mean then?” Wilson whispered to his own daemon, Winnie climbing over his shoes and slapping her damp hands on his pants, an indication to pick her up, which he did. His claws ran down her bumpy back, careful not to hurt her as he sat her in his lap, sighing heavily.

The autumn nights were always the times where he had too much to think about, and yet practically nothing to do. Too much free time, and Wilson grumbled to himself as he tried to think of something else to dwell on.

His campmate had to be around here somewhere, what with his daemon tramping around in the grassy outskirts of camp, thick tongue flicking the air and curling the scents out of it, beady eyes observing the ground. Wilson watched as the daemon pawed the ground, dragged huge claws into the dirt and flung it about, nosing the earth for whatever it had smelled, drool slipping from its open mouth in grostique strands.

He wrapped his arms about his own daemon, subconsciously pulling her closer to his chest, feeling a little ill.

Something about that creature set him on edge, and Winnie wiggled about in his arms and trilled quietly, trying to calm him.

 _“Don't think about it too much,”_ she whispered, a croak in her throat as she looked up at him with glassy eyes, _“there are more important things to focus on."_

Wilson frowned, a tight, stressed expression on his face, but he turned back to the fire and tossed the log at his side into it. Best to listen to what the toad said.

If he didn't, he'd regret it later.

Wilson didn't notice when his campmate appeared, which was fairly normal since he was a mime, but he did notice when the man suddenly cartwheeled himself over the chests, appearing as if from nowhere. With a leap he was posing opposite the fire from Wilson, leaning slightly forward with a pleased look upon his face, holding his odd position.

Wilson leaned back, a little startled, heart thudding in his chest before the man seemed to realize something and straightened up fast enough to almost unbalance himself, immediately falling into another act as he waved his arms and bowed deeply.

Wilson had no idea what was going on or what it was about, but when the mimes painted face jerked up to look at him expectantly, still in an exaggerated bow posture, he brought his claws together and hesitantly clapped.

The applause seemed to be the right thing to do and the man dusted himself off dramatically, shaking his head and flicking his hands in odd gestures, as if to dissuade someone from something, face changing into something almost humble.

Whatever odd, weird little shows these were, Wilson went along with them as best as he could. The first time he had not, had been frustrated and irritated beyond belief about hounds and giants and forest fires, and the mime had moped all week, had sunk against the ground every time Wilson just barely glanced at him, looking as saddened and hopeless as ever.

It only lasted the week, and though Wilson had pondered on apologizing it ended up that he had been quickly forgiven. But that week had been a little harder, with only him doing the work to sustain two people. It was best that he played along.

Winnie rumbled in his arms, watching the mimes expressive face carefully as he sunk down into a crisscross seating, hands in his lap and looking as pleased as ever. Over in the grasses, the sinking sun still giving enough light, the lizard daemon slunk about, tongue and drool slinking along with it.

“Is there-” Wilson cleared his throat, face darkening as he fought the squeak of high pitched tone of his voice, “-is there anyway to make sure your daemon doesn't leave a mess behind it?”

The mime looked confused, tilting his head and glancing over to his daemon, even going so far as to raise a hand as if to shield his eyes from the sun as he observed it shuffle about.

Wilson pressed his claws against Winnies skin, bumpy and rough besides her softer belly, and took another breath of air, trying to calm himself.

“It's the spit and drool that I have to work around.” Wilson swallowed the lump of discomfort in his throat, “It is a little excessive, isn't it?”

The mime tapped his chin, brow furrowing, looking very deep in thought oh so suddenly, and then he made direct eye contact with Wilson and shrugged, a flimsy smile plastered on his face. He moved his arms, his very hands, dancing them about this way and that, and Wilson let himself watch for a moment before giving up.

He had no idea what the man was doing, though he supposed it had something to do with the performance of mimes. 

He had no idea what that was either, but the man didn't seem too downtrodden about it. He just continued what he was doing, face changing and making different expressions with every change and motion of his hands, and if Wilson had been a little less paranoid about such things then he'd have actually liked watching. Unfortunately he was having a hard time trying to figure out what it all meant.

He didn't like ignoring it, but he also didn't like focusing all his attention on the man. It made him anxious, as if his day hadn't been stressful enough.

Wilson carefully dragged a clawed hand down his face, a headache blooming in the back of his head as he interrupted the mimes dancing hands.

“Were you able to gather anything today, any food?”

He himself had went out for wood this morning and had enough stacked up on the edge of camp, not quite sore just yet but going to be tomorrow. Winnie hadn't been much help with that and it probably would have been a better idea to have just stuffed her in his bag and went about his work then let her go around freely. She had a habit of going out and finding the wrong type of flowers, as well as trees apparently, and that had tried his nerves quite terribly.

Next lumber expedition he'd make sure she stayed in her bag on his back, out of the way.

When Wilson looked back up, over the firepit to the sitting man on the other side, he obviously didn't get an answer. The man made a few motions, a little slower as he stared at him, and then stopped, watching him expectantly. 

Well, alright then. He had no idea what the mime had been up to all day, and would probably never find out.

Setting his toad daemon to his side, Wilson stood up and took a quick look in the fridge he had made all by himself, ignoring the sun as it finally fell behind the horizon and darkness descended.

Nothing but bits of rabbit and a few stray berries, all of which Wilson had been the one to gather. Food scavenging didn't seem to be the mimes forte.

When he straightened up, jaw set and little irritated now, it took a moment for Wilson to notice he was being watch.

More specifically, being watched by eyes out in the darkness, big blind things that blinked slowly and patiently.

And there were no green caps in the fridge either.

Well, thought Wilson, almost slamming the machines door shut but stopping at the last second, claws tense as he closed it carefully, that was just perfect now wasn't it. He glared at the pair of eyes that hung in the night just before him, narrowed things that looked bulbous and fat, glistening things just floating there with not a care in the world. All the damn things ever did was watch him, nothing else, and he curled his claws into pricking his palms at the thought.

And then he jumped as a hand landed on his shoulder, startled a hiss of sound from him as he swung around and almost lashed out behind him.

But the mime was quick enough to grab his arms, his blackened wrists held tightly with white gloved hands, and Wilson took a moment to breath and stare at nothing for a moment before refocusing. He had to look up at the mime, a shudder of frustration at being below this man's height level, and when he did he made sure to give him an awful look, teeth bared and glaring with as much anger as he could allow.

“Let go of me.”

Maybe he would have attacked the man had he not restrained him so, but Wilson didn't much care on that. Sneaking up on him had its consequences, and everybody should know by now that creeping up on people with their backs turned ended disastrously.

The man did look awfully concerned however, face drawn and looking down at him wide eyed, but after a moment his hands let go of Wilson's and he stepped back.

Wilson dragged his claws down his wrists, not enough to break skin but enough for discomfort, trying to anchor himself, and his talons clicked together as he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, ignoring the many sets of eyes that were watching him from out in the darkness.

Just focused on his claws, scraping them together and pricking his palms, just focus on that, no caps meant no safety net, and he had to have a safety net, even if it was just his own abnormal anatomy, even if it wasn't quite working.

He could make it through the night without the shadows forming if he just focused on his claws. If he just distracted himself, just dragged them against each other and winced every time he scratched his bare skin, ignored any scratch he may inflict upon himself, then he'd be fine. No imaginary being would come to life, would try to hurt him if he just focused.

That was a lie, but it was a good one to tell oneself when all alone, curled up in a falling apart tent and waiting for something to come rip it apart, the world wavering with a horrid echo and too many eyes and swirling shades watching, waiting oh so patiently.

Just touching his own daemon would make him shudder and ache, something in the shadows and twisting whispers straining the bond keeping them together, making everything even worse if he tried to fix it, shadow hands reaching to twine around the toad daemon and keep her pinned, him unable to do anything about it except gasp and try to avoid lunging monstrosities that made his head pound and the world fall apart at the seams.

But he wasn't alone this time. 

This time the touch was softer, more hesitant, and Wilson hissed out a breath and dragged his talons together when he felt a hand on his shoulder, willing it away.

He knew what he was doing, he didn't need any help, he would be fine, he knew exactly what he was doing, it wasn't the first time he's done this Winnie was still at the fire and he knew she was trying to avoid the creeping hands but she'd fail and soon enough he'd be feeling that constricting feeling in his chest again as they squeezed around her and started to turn against him, to twist him up and trap him with long strands that clung to his cloths and threatened to drag him down, down down down, all the while tugging and pulling and pushing into him, all the while dragging him further and further away from his daemon, all the while ripping him apart even as he struggled and fought-

It took him a moment to realize he wasn't struggling against shadows, cloth muffling his breathing and face pressed against something warm, arms folding around him and firmly keeping him still even as he pushed and leaned away.

His arms stung, burned even, and Wilson's gut churned at the sensation, stilling himself. He knew what that meant, the way he was heaving for breath and that horrid constricting knot in his chest, he knew what that all meant.

He didn't know what being wrapped up and held closely meant, however.

(He knew the feeling, he's had it done to him before, back when the world was just starting to get different, back when the arch was incomplete, back when he still was struggling to remember and struggling to breath and fight the memories of shadow binds on his wrists and ankles, still trying to come to terms with the fact that someone else was around now and that it didn't feel right, not at all-)

Wilson breathed, the faint scent of flowers and berries and honey, the smell of soft, well worn fabric, all so different from what he was used to, what he's been around for so long now.

(Not cigars not cigars not cigars not cigars-)

His arms stung and he hoped he wasn't bleeding, he didn't have any glands around for that sort of thing, but he was shaking and he didn't quite know why. The knot in his chest tightened, coiled round and round in his throat, but he knew how to ignore that, knew how.

Once his daemon was caught in those fingers, he could never figure out how to get her out of them.

Wilson rose his arms up and his claws curled into the fabric he was burying his face into, tight and completely disregarding the fact that he could be ripping holes into the man's sweater. He let out a breath, tense and feeling his very being entwined with whispering shadows, and he hoped that nothing would manifest, nothing would attempt to attack him like this, grasping onto someone as an anchor, as a safety net.

He didn't want collateral damage, but all he could think of to do was hold on and remember to breath, to try not to memorize the faint smells of someone lighter and happier and softer than himself.

After a moment the man holding onto him moved, arms still keeping him pressed close, and a hand rose up to press against his hair, careful and slow as Wilson tried not to think about this too much. Eventually he'd be let go of, and then the things in the dark could get a hold of him, but he could deal with that. 

He's dealt with it before, and he could deal with it again.

(It didn't matter that he failed every time, every single time that he was alone, without that net of safety-)

There was a pause, Wilson still tense, still tightly wound up and waiting, the hand on his head still, and then suddenly the feeling of shadows curling and squeezing his other half was gone.

That made him reconsider what was going on, and the man didn't let him pull away but let Wilson lean back to try and see where his daemon was, to try and see what was happening, the hand in his hair leaving to his back, holding him up.

The toad daemon was not encased in a withering shadow cage of claws and fingers and tendrils, not anymore anyway. She hopped towards him, looking a little deflated and stressed, as the large lizard daemon next to her withered and snapped at shadows, clawing the ground and slapping its tail into solid shades, jaws closing and ripping shadow apart.

Wilson stared for a long moment, not quite understanding, but by the time Winnie had hopped close the arms around him pulled back and he had scooped her up, against his chest as tight as he dared, trembling even more at the feeling of comfort.

The lizard daemon tore through the shadows, maw gaping and hissing and flinging stringy globs of spit into the darkness, chasing after the shadows, rushing them off, beady eyes glaring at anything that slithered about as it stopped at the edges of the firelight.

Wilson didn't move when he felt a hand at his shoulder, eyes closed as he finally started to calm, his daemon still and quiet in his arms, as shaken as he was.

“We should probably-” Wilson drew in a breath and shook his head, mustered himself together, “-I'll find some green caps tomorrow.”

He turned back to look up at the mimes concerned face, his own drawn and stressed. He should probably thank him.

Wilson looked away, his toad daemon croaking quietly in his arms. He should do that.

He wasn't going to do that.

The lizard daemon slunk back over towards them, dragging its heavy tail and flicking its thick tongue out, saliva oozing from its mouth. It didn't look all that tired after biting and chasing living shadow about, which was rather odd in Wilson's opinion.

But it wasn't any of his business.

The man didn't reply, obviously, and Wilson bent down and carefully let his daemon go, the toad flopping into the grass and giving him an odd look, still looking a little worn down and ragged. The shadows were never very gentle, especially with her, and Wilson couldn't count the number of times he's been left to die, gasping and empty and falling apart at the seams, as the shadows ripped into her and spread glittering dust to mix into their nonexistent smoke.

The lizard daemon looked down its snout at her, slowly moving over to loom over the toad daemon, beady eyes shining and watchful. After a moment, Wilson crossing his arms and ignoring how the mime was hovering over him, the lizard glanced up at him and hissed, quietly, tongue slithering out and in as it ducked its head down to eye level with his daemon.

_“Ils brûleront en enfer et nous danserons sur leurs tombes.”_

With that it tapped its snout on her warty head, Winnie blinking her bulging, glassy eyes and tilting her head to watch the lizard slink away, slow, casual strides as it flicked the air with its tongue and drooled even more.

Wilson thought for a moment, silent like the mime behind him, and then swung around, shoulders tense and defensive.

“Thank you.” Curt, short, blunt. Wilson shifted his feet, a little anxious, still unhappy with how grey the world was, its echo less but still there, eyes still there in the darkness, pale and ever watchful, but he could recover easily on his own at this level. Nothing was going to grab at him when he was this stable, when he was as aware as he was now.

And he had to thank the person who had helped with that, no matter his unease with the scaly daemon and the almost useless nature of having a mime in camp. It wasn't as bad as it could be, even if they weren't quite living in comfort as of yet.

He didn't quite expect the hand on his shoulder again, and the man had a smile on his painted face, nothing sharklike or pleased or even aggressively happy, just…

Soft, thought Wilson, remembering the smell of flowers in the man's clothing and remembering the warmth of being held, arms firmly holding him up and keeping him safe as shadows started to manifest and crawl around him.

He looked away quickly, pretending to take notice that the fire seemed like it was flagging, ignoring how his face had heated up, ignoring how he felt a little warmer and lighter.

Ignoring how very suddenly the misgivings he's been having lately faded away along with the flickering shadows, ignoring how the comfort of having someone else around with him was so much more than being all alone with his daemon.

Well, at least he won't have to worry so much about the mimes lizard daemon now, it ignoring them as it circled the camp in the firelight, tongue slipping from its mouth and flicking drops of saliva into the grass.

For a moment, it seemed to Wilson almost as if it was guarding them, circling and watching and waiting as its partner danced his hands about to Wilson, another performance of sorts.

Wilson made sure to clap afterwards, not quite able to hide the way his mind lightened or the upturn of his mouth, nor the way he relaxed ever so slightly by the fire pit, a little more at ease.

And perhaps a little more trusting too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wilson's daemon is a female Cane Toad named Winnie.
> 
> Wes's daemon is a male Komodo Dragon named Wieland.


End file.
